Encounters in the Dark
by Verifictus
Summary: Starling City has suffered a mysterious attack by an unknown assailant and is threatened with a repeat performance. While city officials bumble to the rescue, everyone's favorite hooded vigilante, bow and arrows in hand, aided by his trusted associates, John Diggle and Felicity Smoak, sets out to make sure the first attack is the last.


**1. The Man in a Cape**

Laurel Lance hurried through the cold night fog, lost and frantic, wondering how she got separated from the others.

Close behind, she heard muffled footsteps getting closer, dangerously closer, step by dragging step. The ragged breathing of her pursuer pierced the clinging mist, expectation hanging in the heavy darkness. Increasingly terrified, disoriented, lost, she turned down a trash-filled break between buildings, looking for an opening or a hiding place or even something to use as a weapon. Instead, all she found was a doorless, windowless towering brick wall. A deadly dead-end.

She spun, backing against the cold, silent wall, holding her breath. Out of the ghostly grey oozed a shadowy figure, a deathly-thin man in a black cape, an ankle-length drape surrounding him like a stage curtain, waiting to reveal the ghastly show within. It wasn't so much that he passed through the mist like a solid object, it was more like the mist gave hideous birth to him. As he approached, his cape flowing like ink on water, he was noticeably limping, dragging one foot. His chalky-white face was revealed, deep-set black eyes with blood-red veining, a crooked nose rough-cut from alabaster, dust-yellow pointed teeth hiding behind thin black lips contorted into a wicked grin.

"Why, Miss Lance," the man wheezed with giddy delight, giggling slightly, "how nice of you to grace my humble kingdom." He swept his cane dramatically in the air, in all directions, his cape swirling to reveal the specter of the man within. His ill-fitting clothes, ancient but elegant, tattered and worn, gave him the appearance of a weathered scarecrow torn from its stake or a gaunt cadaver exhumed from its rotting grave. He leaned forward, eying her like a predatory bird would a small wriggling worm, licking a dribble of saliva off his lip. "So very lovely, my dear. So very . . ." he purred, his eyes twinkling.

She saw a sudden glint of light, like a spark of electricity, with a hint of sound, like a strangled whine. With the flamboyant movement of a magician, the man had produced a knife from somewhere, a gleaming knife with a dazzling talon-like blade and a blackened mother-of-pearl handle. Engulfed in smothering darkness, the blade emitted an iridescent blue-white glow, as if it was somehow alive, lusting for its intended victim.

She was suddenly aware of her entire body, like never before, icy-cold, trembling, tingling, thrillingly alive, maybe for the last time. Her eyes, her mind, her entire being focused on the blade as it approached, seemingly floating in the air, the man in the cape having momentarily dissolved back into the darkness. She looked from side to side, desperate, but there was no escape, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no escape of any kind.

"Wha . . . what do you want!" she cried.

"Why, just your pretty lit . . ." he began, but stopped mid-sentence, mid-word, mid-syllable. His expression changed from ecstasy, to surprise, to amusement, finally to profound disappointment. With one last pained grimace, he crumbled to the pavement like a gossamer web of swarming spiders, his knife bouncing across the concrete, ringing, an arrow protruding from his back.

Her eyes followed his fall, in agonizing slow-motion, then looked up, beyond him, into the darkness. A cautious figure, a man, the hooded vigilante, stepped out of the mist, like a stalking panther. He stopped, eyed his prey, then approached slowly, smoothly, with serene confidence, stepping over the man in the cape, stopping in front of her.

"Are you alright, Miss Lance?" he asked in a low whisper from under his hood.

She tried to answer. She wanted to thank him. And more. But somehow she couldn't. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. In desperation, with a burst of uncontrollable impulse, she lunged at him like a wild animal, threw her arms around him, pulled him to her, or herself to him — she couldn't tell which — and kissed him on the lips, long, hard, with passion . . .

Laurel Lance awoke violently from a deep, but troubled sleep, sitting up, thrashing the air, gasping for breath, her heart pounding, covered with goose-bumps and sweat, aroused, overwhelmed with burning feelings of desire and loss. But mostly of guilt.

.

**2. Mending Old Fences**

Sleep hadn't been kind to Oliver since the island. More tossing and turning and brooding than actual sleep. Troubling dreams, too. But last night had been different, not in substance, though, only in degree. Just MORE tossing and turning and brooding than usual. And dreams. It left him conflicted, moody and unfocused; which is to say, MORE conflicted, moody and unfocused than usual. And it forced him to do something he'd been unwilling to do, something he'd been unable to do; it forced him to be honest. At least with himself.

He had to talk with Laurel. He knew he didn't WANT to; but he knew he HAD to.

He rolled out of bed and took a long shower, a long lukewarm thoroughly unsatisfying shower. Drying off, he returned to the bedroom, dripping on the hardwood floor, and stood, thinking. More like brooding. Aching inside like some invisible claw had just viciously ripped out his guts, everything that made Oliver Queen, Oliver Queen, he found himself drawn to that one window on the south wall, the one looking out on the deceptively beautiful skyline of Starling City, that uncomfortable mélange of order and chaos, of civic responsibility and criminal subversion, of shining civilization and savage jungle, far from his privileged universe, his home, his prison. Somewhere in that seething mess was Laurel.

He sat on the bed, wet and dripping, trying to pull a sock on his foot. But what he was really trying to do was decide what to say to her, and how to say it. Nothing came, at least nothing that made any sense. Frustrated, he gave up; he would just have to adlib. At least he'd sound real, maybe even sincere, not rehearsed; maybe he'd even sound human, not the wooden machine he'd become during his ordeal on the island.

Seemingly by magic, his cellphone crawled into his sweaty hand. He took a deep breath and pushed the speed-dial labeled 'LL'. Funny, he hadn't even realized he had her on speed-dial. Why? he wondered. After a short ring, he heard a familiar voice, her voice.

He took another deep breath, imagining that his heart had turned to inanimate stone, and spoke, trying to sound nonchalant, human, "Laurel? Oliver. Hi. Yeah. Uh, hope I didn't wake you . . ." He looked pained and smiled. "Oh, of course . . . it's after ten. Sorry, lost track of the time." Another pause, then, "Well, I was wondering if we could get together sometime, you know, to . . ."

He stood up and began wandering around the room, gazing out the window at the city, as if seeing her might help. "There's something I need to talk to you about, something . . ." He stopped, surprised. "Uh, lunch with Tommy? That'd be great, but it's, uh, you know, sort of private, so I was . . ."

His mouth was so dry, he could hardly speak. "Sure, that'd be great. Noon? Sure. Where? Sure, see you there. Bye." He heard a brittle 'click' on the other end.

"Our special little place . . ." he mumbled aloud, not sure whether that was good or bad.

He rode his bike to a secluded grove of aspen at the north end of Lake Gideon. 'Their special little place', back in the old days, the pre-island days, his human days. He biked because he needed the physical exertion to relax, to try to relax. Laurel arrived a few minutes later. Dressed in blue slacks and a white blouse, her hair glistening in the sunlight, he thought she looked ravishing. Somehow, that didn't help.

"Thanks for coming," he said, his mouth suddenly dry again.

"You sounded upset," she said, looking at him with concern. "Is something wrong?

It took a while for him to speak, to form the words he wanted to say, HAD to say. "Yes, there is. With me, anyway. So I won't beat around the bush . . ." He paused, took a deep breath, then, "On the island, all those years, all I thought about was you. All that kept me going, trying to survive, to escape, to get home, was you." He stopped again, studying her reaction. "Now that I'm back, I . . . need you. Seeing you all the time, but keeping a distance is more pain than what happened on the island. It's slow torture. It's like . . ." She stopped him with a gentle touch of her hand.

"I understand, Ollie," she said, pain in her voice. "I . . . feel the same. Seeing you, but not holding you is nothing but pain." She slumped, lifeless, her eyes suddenly empty, "I need you, too. But what about Tommy?"

"He already knows. I can see it in his eyes every time we're together. I can hear it in his voice. He knows."

"I thought it was just my imagination. My guilt."

"No, the guilt's his."

"It's still going to hurt. And I really don't want to hurt him."

"I know. He's my best friend in the world. I don't want to hurt him, either."

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. He did the same. Then they kissed, long and hard and with more passion that either could remember, even when they had been lovers, before the island. Before Tommy . . .

Oliver Queen awoke violently from a deep, but troubled sleep, sitting up, thrashing the air, gasping for breath, his heart pounding, covered with goose-bumps and sweat, aroused, overwhelmed with burning feelings of desire and loss. But mostly of guilt.

.

**3. The Morning After**

Moira Queen was sitting at the small, but elegant, round oak table in the breakfast nook off the kitchen, dressed, as always, like she was dining with the King of Persia, when Oliver wandered in, gave her a peck on the cheek, and sat in the chair opposite her, his chair. It only took a moment to see she was not in the best of moods. She was often moody, but seldom at breakfast.

"Somebody didn't sleep very well last night," he said playfully as he poured a glass of orange juice.

She looked at him, smiled with considerable difficulty, and said, "As a matter of fact, I didn't." She set her tea cup down; Oliver refilled it. "Thank you, dear. Yes, one of those horribly strange dreams where nothing makes any sense."

"I think they call it a nightmare," he said with a smile. You too, he thought.

"Yes, I suppose. It was about Walter."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. Exactly." She reached for her cup again just as Thea shuffled in, not quite awake. Her normal morning, pre-coffee-infusion modus operandi.

"You too," Thea said, pouring a cup of black coffee, taking an exploratory sip as she sat. "I had a totally crazy dream last night, too." Then she drank half the cup in one gulp. "Maybe something's going around." She giggled, followed by the rest of the cup.

"I don't think bad dreams are contagious, sis," Oliver said. "Hope yours was more fun than mom's, though." And more fun than mine, he thought to himself, a chill rippling up his spine.

"I rather doubt it, brother."

"What was it about?" Moira asked.

"Absolutely NO comment!" Thea said as she picked up her cup in one hand and the coffee pot in the other, fleeing the room without another word.

"Well, good morning to you, too," Moira said, rolling her eyes.

"Probably involved getting dumped by a date in the middle of . . ." he began, but was interrupted by his cellphone ringing. He held the phone to his ear and said, "Yeah?" A brief pause, then, "On my way." He stood up and gave his mother another peck on the cheek. "Gotta go. Problem at the club," he lied. "See you tonight." He started for the door, stopping to snag one of Isabella's intoxicatingly decadent breakfast rolls; he sometimes thought he missed them more than anything while on the island.

Moira slammed her cup down. "Is it really asking too much," she sighed, "to have a family breakfast once in a while? Is it!"

.

**4. The Game's Afoot**

When Oliver arrived at his vigilante base of operations in the basement of the Queen factory, he found Diggle and Felicity talking, seeming agitated. Now what? he thought.

Diggle turned toward Oliver. "Glad you're here," he said.

"What's up?"

"Have you seen the news this morning?" Felicity asked.

"Didn't even have time for breakfast, thanks to . . ."

"Then take a look at this," she said, activating one of the computer displays. "I recorded this about an hour ago." A news report appeared, an agitated reporter speaking from City Hall:

". . . mayor coming out, now," the reporter was saying off camera, "for his impromptu news conference." The mayor, looking more self-important than usual, Oliver thought, approached the podium surrounded by a herd of city officials, mostly law enforcement. Of special interest was Detective Quentin Lance standing slightly behind and to the right of the mayor. The mayor pulled some wrinkled papers out of his coat pocket, unfolded them and pressed them flat on the podium. Then he turned and whispered something to Lance, who nodded, then turned back to the podium and waited impatiently for quiet.

"Thank you for coming," the mayor said, striking a pose somewhere between imperial and outraged, his usual when making a public announcement. "As most of you probably already know, Starling City was the victim of an insidious attack last night. Whether by criminals or terrorists or even a lone psychopath, we don't know. It wasn't a bomb or a viral contamination or damage to a vital city service or even a cyber-attack. No, we were hit by what the experts are calling a 'psychic-attack." A rumble rose from the reporters crowded into the hot, stuffy, undersized room.

"That's right, a psychic-attack. Somehow, someone caused everyone within a three-mile radius to have dreams. Not good dreams, but disturbing dreams. Nightmares in some cases, but dreams that left psychological damage behind. Dreams that caused pain, sometimes anger, sometimes terror. As a result, we had a rash of suicides, murders, assaults and acts of violence, explosions, fires . . . the list is endless." More rumbling from the reporters.

"Currently, we have no idea who perpetrated this vicious attack on our fair city. Or why. Or how. Therefore, I have created a special taskforce, in concert with the Department of Homeland Security, to get to the bottom of this. To stop it! And bring the perpetrators to justice. The task force is headed by Detective Quentin Lance of the Police Department. It has the highest priority. And my personal involvement. His assignment is to . . ."

A voice in the crowd shouted, "Has there been a ransom demand?"

"Not as yet," the mayor replied, visibly annoyed by the interruption, glaring at the offending reporter. "Now, as I was about to say, we will not rest until . . ."

Felicity stopped the playback. "I don't think you want to watch him strut," she said, turning toward Oliver. "So that's it. I know I sure didn't enjoy my dream." She sat back in her chair.

"Me either," Diggle said. "Involved my brother . . ." His brother who was killed in Afghanistan.

"Yeah, know what you mean," Oliver agreed, somewhat subdued as his dream replayed in his mind. "Somebody with a warped sense of humor, I'd say.

"More like SICK sense of humor, "Diggle said, angry.

"I'll go with demented!" Felicity said.

"So, it must be Dr. Demento," Oliver said, trying to ease the obvious tensions. Theirs must've been as creepy as mine, he thought. "So, where do we start?" he said, looking directly at Felicity.

"I have an idea," she replied, with that playful look on her face. Oliver could see the wheels turning inside.

"You always do," he said.

.

**5. An Inconvenient Lunch**

Oliver had a long-standing lunch engagement with Tommy and Laurel. Not something he was looking forward to, given the events of the previous night. And especially since they were meeting at a cozy little restaurant downtown; once upon a time, another of their 'special little places'. He wondered how much was too much; would he eventually be overwhelmed, snap and kill them all, including himself? He certainly hoped not.

As he'd expected, and feared, the story du jour, the 'psychic-attack' was the main topic of conversation. Oddly, they wanted to talk about it, but only in general terms, not their specific dreams. Personally, he didn't even want to talk in general terms. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized, his dream was, in fact, pleasurable. Sort of — at least the final scene. Somehow, it was only the contrast between the pleasurable outcome of the dream and the frustrating reality of his life that created the pain. He wondered if everyone had the same type of dream: the pleasure zone stimulated, then the rug pulled out. Bam! Flat on your emotional keester. He definitely wasn't going to find out from Tommy or Laurel.

"So, who do you think's behind it?" Tommy said.

"No idea," Laurel said, reaching for the salt shaker.

"Oh, probably just a geeky grad student at one of the local colleges," Oliver said, again trying to lighten the mood, "got a couple of wires crossed and . . . poof!" He motioned in the air with his hands simulating an explosion. "Weird dreams."

"I don't think so," Laurel said, frowning, "I smell a criminal mind. Somebody up to something. Up to something no good. I can feel it in my bones."

"Ah, spoken like a true officer of the court," Oliver said, laughing.

"That's why I love her," Tommy said, giving her a quick hug. Oliver couldn't help but notice that she pulled away and looked momentarily uncomfortable. He also couldn't help but notice that she hadn't made eye contact with either of them throughout lunch. Why? he thought, wondering if it had anything to do with her dream. Knowing, somehow, it did. Maybe guilt? he wondered. If her dream was anything like mine, he thought, then that's definitely a possibility. Good ol' guilt.

"Is THAT why you love me?" Laurel replied to Tommy's comment, looking uncomfortable again, more uncomfortable.

"That and about a million other . . ." Abruptly, mid-sentence, Tommy cringed, looked at his watch and gasped, "Oh, have to get back to the club. Important meeting." Oliver knew it wasn't true. He realized they were all uncomfortable.

"Me too . . ." Laurel said, looking relieved, ". . . important meeting with the, uh, DA." Oliver doubted it.

"Ditto," Oliver said, "gotta see a man about a horse." His father's favor reply when he figured it wasn't anybody's business what he was up to.

Like a flock of birds frightened by a gunshot, they scattered in all directions, heading for their 'important' business engagements. All Oliver remembered from lunch was that Laurel never once made eye contact with him.

.

**6. This Just In**

After lunch, Oliver stopped by Queen Consolidated world headquarters to see Felicity, to get an update. She could only sneak out to the factory once in a while to work on his special projects, and only for brief periods. But, as he had discovered from people at the firm, she was so efficient no one had even noticed that she was sometimes AWOL, or seen the slightest drop in her work output. Because there wasn't any. She was nothing short of amazing.

Her office was its usual gloomy darkness, except for the multi-colored flashing lights on the racks of computers that surrounded her like miniature skyscrapers and the glow of the many busy computer displays. He never liked the greenish-gray pallor the room gave her otherwise peaches-and-cream complexion. It bothered him that she had to work in an office designed for machines, not humans; definitely not for Felicity Smoak.

He sat down next to her. "Any news?"

"Lots," she said, looking excited. "For starters, the city got a ransom demand. Big surprise."

"How much?"

"Oh, they're not overly greedy. Only ten mil."

"Or else . . .?"

"Or else, they're going to do it again. And, of course, the price will go up. Another big surprise."

"How do they know they won't just keep doing it, even if they pay?"

"They don't. So the mayor emphatically says they're not going to pay. Absolutely no negotiation. No ifs, no ands, no buts!" She raised her right hand in the air, pointing her index finger dramatically at the ceiling and proclaimed, "Verily, verily, I sayeth unto you, my subservient little worms!"

"That's our mayor. Or is it emperor? I forget," Oliver said, maintaining an unamused expression. "Is he holding some cards we don't know about?"

"I'm glad you asked," she said, looking deadly serious and rolling closer, whispering. "I hacked into the city network and . . ."

"NO!" Oliver interrupted, trying to look shocked.

". . . and found that, after all that grandstanding, he's actually GOING to pay the ransom."

"That's our mayor!" this time smiling.

"And get this: your old friend, Detective Lance, is going to make the handoff."

"With a tracking device, I assume?"

"Yes, and no. Yes, there'll be a tracking device, but it'll be off and, thus, undetectable. They think. The mayor ordered no tail on him either and for the police to wait an hour, then send a signal to turn it on. Then they'll follow the GPS signal to their lair."

"Very clever. I didn't realize our mayor was that smart."

"He's not. Too many clever ways tech-smart baddies could get around it. I know I could. Only time will tell."

"Huh," Oliver pondered aloud. "So, what are the chances that everything'll go right and the police'll get their man?"

"Well, statistically, over the last decade, the Starling City Police Department had an average arrest rate of 21.3%, if that's any indication."

"You just had that floating around in your head?"

She smiled and shrugged. "What can I say, I like numbers."

"Of course. Well, you haven't exactly given me a lot of confidence that our men in blue — or rumpled tweed and denim, in Detective Lance's case — are likely to get their man. Maybe I'll just sort of tag along, you know, and make sure nothing goes wrong." He got that faraway look in his eye as the corner of his mouth curled up. That 'predatory' look of his, Felicity thought.

"Kind of thought you might."

.

**7. An Urban Goose Chase**

Oliver, dressed in his dark-green vigilante outfit, hidden under dirty coveralls and a dented helmet, bow and arrows tucked neatly away, sat on his motorcycle, engine idling, at the corner of Twenty-Third & Centennial, holding a bag of take-out food from Burger Boy, waiting for Lance's police car to go by.

Following Lance wasn't going to be a cakewalk; in fact, he wasn't going to be following him at all; too much chance of being seen, either by the police or the perps. Complicating matters, the drop-off site wasn't known in advance. Lance was on a cellphone that'd been delivered to the police station by FedEx that morning. Driving, alone, he was being given directions: turn right on First, turn left on Main, and so on. Obviously, they were watching to see that he wasn't being followed. Thanks to Felicity's wizardly way with technology, Oliver's cellphone was hacked into the conversation, passing the instructions on to him. But he still couldn't get too close and couldn't look like he was shadowing Lance, even at a distance. So he had to follow the instructions approximately, zigzagging from one street to another, sometimes going in the opposite direction, backtracking, trying to look casual and random, disappearing into the chaotic night traffic.

When the drop-off finally came, following several false stops, it was located in a closed campground inside Indian Ridge State Park, just outside town. Oliver watched the transaction from high above in a pine tree. Lance handed a canvas shoulder-pack containing the ransom to a short stocky man dressed entirely in a black body-sock, only the whites of his eyes and his coffee-stained teeth visible. The snippets of conversation he heard were mostly Lance growling at the man, who was systematically using an assortment of technologies to check for a tracking device or marked bills or any of a laundry-list of possible tricks the city might use. He found nothing. Lance returned to his car, cursing the whole way, to Oliver's delight, and drove off.

As soon as the police car was out of sight, a jet-black Mini Cooper with dark windows, shot out of the trees, stopping barely long enough for the man with the shoulder-pack to jump in the passenger seat, then tore away, leaving tire-tracks behind longer than the car. Oliver dropped to the ground, jumped on his cycle and shot after them, lights out. He needed to stay far enough behind to avoid being obvious, but not so far he'd lose them. Unlike tailing Lance, though, he wasn't particularly worried that someone might be following the Mini, just as they had presumably followed the police car, because he realized they hadn't been following electronically, they'd been using the Mini; he remembered having seen it many times in his pursuit. A little too coincidental, he thought. And he knew it wasn't the police, forbidden by the mayor to follow. Very low tech, he thought, not as sophisticated as he'd imagined, as he'd feared. The realization that they might be rank amateurs was encouraging.

He followed the Mini to an industrial part of town, warehouses, factories, service buildings, truck lots, the like. From a block behind, he saw them make a right turn into a truck door of an old brick warehouse. By the time he reached the building, however, the door was closed. He drove by and pulled into an alley a half-block away. He ripped off the coveralls and helmet, climbed a ladder to the roof of the adjacent building and ran to the warehouse they were in, moving catlike, not making a sound. At the roof ridge was a raised monitor with clerestory windows on each side. The windows had obscure glass, but the glass was missing in places, allowing him to see into the building. He looked through one into the space below.

He saw a typical large warehouse space surrounded by rough brick walls supporting massive wood trusses. But his attention was immediately drawn to something that wasn't typical: a collection of tents in the middle of the space, like a small village. The biggest was twelve-sided, dome-like, surrounded by small rectangular tents, all constructed of light metal framing supporting walls and roofs of plastic sheathing. There were flexible ducts going helter-skelter from roof to roof like gargantuan garden hoses. He could hear voices, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

Then he saw movement. There were a few men and women in white smocks, like doctors wear, going between the domed tent and the other tents, talking too quietly to be understood. Of more concern to him, though, were the guards he saw at the perimeter of the building, looking out the occasional small windows, not dressed in uniforms, and none dressed alike, but all with rifles. They were all looking out, not in, or up in his direction. He had to find out what was in the tents, and do so before the police arrived. If they arrived. Felicity had said that if she'd been in charge, she would have gone over the payoff money and the shoulder-pack, with micro-detectors of some sort; she would've detected a bug even if it was off and flushed it down the nearest toilet. Smart baddies or not-so-smart, he needed to move fast; he wouldn't get any better reception from the police, especially his good friend, Detective Lance, than he would from the mysterious people below.

He lowered an almost-invisible threadlike cable, knotted for grip, from the broken-out window down to the floor, directly between two of the smaller tents, and slid quietly down. He crept to the end of one of the small tents and looked around the corner. As he did, one of the guards started to light a cigarette, turning his head so the flame wouldn't be visible from the outside. Oliver pulled his head back, but too late; the guard saw him and began shouting to the others. Instantly reasoning that they wouldn't shoot toward the tents — too much danger of hitting the people within they were protecting — he ducked into the nearest tent. A middle-aged woman, sitting at a laptop, typing, spun around, saw him and jumped to her feet, screaming. Hearing footsteps approaching the door, he slashed the plastic wall and jumped through the opening, crouching, looking all around.

Guards were approaching from three directions. Their unorganized, erratic behavior told him exactly what he was hoping for: definitely not professionals, amateurs. He was amazed, and relieved, at how easy they were to stop; three guards — three arrows. He looked around the end of the tent and saw another guard coming; but unlike the others, this one started shooting, apparently without aiming, though. Oliver shot back — four down, how many to go? He scanned the space, looking for more guards, but only saw white-clad figures running toward a rear exit. He let them go. His only interest was what was inside the domed tent. He ran to the door and entered.

The interior appeared to be some sort of mobile medical facility, a MASH field hospital, like you might find on a battlefield. There were work tables and supply cabinets all around, medical equipment and containers of drugs behind glass doors, disinfectant smells burning his nose. And in the exact center, under a battery of glaring white lights, surrounded by a jumble of haphazardly-assembled electronic devices, all interconnected by a tangle of fine colored wires, was a padded table, a hospital operating table, he guessed, with a body on it, a man, a young man, who could have been dead or alive. He couldn't tell from where he was standing.

.

**8. The Man on the Table**

Tortured eyes quickly locking on him told Oliver the man on the table wasn't dead. Depending on circumstances, that could be good or bad. He wasn't sure.

Except for the eye movement, though, the man could've easily been dead, looking like a cadaver about to be autopsied. His body was emaciated and bony, his skin waxy and pallid. But a closer survey revealed more. Several IVs were in both arms, a few more in his neck. There was what looked like a feeding tube in his nose and a breathing tube in his mouth. Sprinkled across his chest, like oversized confetti, glued in place, was an assortment of sensors, connected by ultra-fine colored wires to the electronic equipment, all humming ominously with flickering lights. He wished he had Felicity there to tell him what it all was. The most interesting thing he saw, though, was a prismatic metallic cap on the man's head, strangely both high-tech looking and somehow like a relic from some really old and tacky sci-fi movie, maybe The Bride of Frankenstein or a Flash Gordon serial. Definitely, a funky old black and white flick.

What troubled him more than anything, though, was that the man did not appear to be a volunteer; he was strapped down: wrists, ankles, elbows, knees, waist, chest, neck. Even his head was immobilized by stainless-steel brackets and clamps, bolted to the table. He was conscious, looking drugged but somehow electrified, speechless due to the tape holding the tube in his mouth, with dark-set bloodshot eyes begging for help, for peace. Maybe for death. Oliver ripped the tape off his mouth and pulled the tube out.

The man gagged and choked. "Help . . ." he rasped slowly in a low gurgling whisper, speech badly slurred. ". . . me."

Oliver removed the Velcro restraints, one by one, each making a tearing noise. As soon as his hands were free, the man started pulling the tubes and IVs and sensors off and letting them drop to the floor, like they were vile and filthy. The only thing left was the cap. Removing it was tricky, though. It was held in place with brackets and clamps, under the skin, screwed to his skull.

"Please . . ." the man pleaded, ". . . faster . . ."

"I don't want to hurt you . . ." Oliver started to say, but was interrupted.

"Don't worry . . . just get . . . IT . . . off me . . ."

Oliver threw caution to the wind, placing speed above delicacy. Or the likelihood of pain. He ignored the blood, too; the island, at least, had prepared him for that. He had to get the man to safety. And fast.

He was suddenly back on the island . . .

.

**9. A Stitch in Time**

He had to rescue Slade Wilson.

True, he wasn't the absolute nicest guy in the world all the time, or ever actually, but Oliver had to admit that, without him and Yao Fei, he'd probably be dead, definitely be dead. He'd taught him more survival skills than he could count. And rescued him more times than he could remember. He owed him.

"It's my turn to return the favor," Oliver mumbled aloud, hiding in the deep, insect-infested bramble.

In the hot humid dark, he crawled on his stomach through the thorny weeds toward the olive-drab military tent they had Slade in, stopping often, afraid of making a telltale sound or his motion being seen. 'Haste is death; patience is life,' Slade always said. Or was it Yao Fei? He couldn't remember.

When he reached the entrance to the tent, there was a guard sitting on a folding stool, smoking. Oliver waited for just the right moment, when the guard was distracted, his defenses relaxed. But the moment never came, so he had to engineer the moment himself. He found a pebble and tossed it into the surrounding jungle. At the sound, the guard stood up and turned; he was inside the tent, dead, his throat cut, before the rock made a second bounce.

Slade was bound and gagged and tied to an iron ring screwed into the damp earth, obviously having been tortured. He was only semi-conscious, barely recognizing his rescuer. But his military training clicked in, making him cooperative and silent, regardless of his condition. Oliver cut him loose and helped him up. Together, they limped to the entrance and surveyed the dark, illuminated here and there by camp fires and kerosene lamps. Seeing no one, hearing no one, feeling no one, they disappeared into the night.

It was a long and difficult struggle back to the crashed plane they used as a sanctuary. They made it, eventually, exhausted and hungry, but alive. Oliver settled Slade onto a tattered mat and helped him drink some water. Then he checked his wounds, some still oozing blood. He removed his shirt and stopped abruptly.

There was a device wrapped around his waist. He knew immediately what it was: a bomb. An LED display, clicking off seconds, was the tipoff. It looked like a collection of parts, jerry-rigged together, attached to a woven steel cable. Impossible to cut without a blowtorch or a carborundum blade, neither of which he had. His first thought was to slip it off, but it was too tight to fit over his shoulders or hips. It was immovable.

As he watched, the display slowly, untiringly, patiently, continued its countdown: . . . 0:11 . . . 0:10 . . . 0:09 . . .

.

**10. The Fleeing Flunky**

As Oliver pulled the last bracket out from under the swollen, inflamed scalp, he heard a sound behind him. With lightening reflexes, he spun and dropped to the floor, just as a razor-sharp surgical knife whizzed past his head and ripped through the plastic wall sheathing, jingling across the concrete floor like wind chimes. Looking up, he saw a tall, stooped, grey-haired man in a white smock, his face expressionless, carrying the shoulder-pack, turn and disappear out the door.

"Don't go anywhere," he said to the man on the table, then turned and ran in pursuit. The man in the smock ran across the warehouse, toward the exit, but stopped to pick up a rifle dropped by one of the fallen guards, and turned, aiming. Oliver dropped to one knee and drew an arrow from his quiver. The man cried out in pain or surprise, probably both, and dropped to the floor, an arrow sticking out of his convulsing body.

Oliver ran to him and knelt down. He rolled him onto his back, breaking the arrow in the process. The man groaned in pain, coughing; blood bubbled up.

"What did you do to him!" Oliver cried, angry. "And to our city!"

Despite his pain, the man laughed. "What did WE do?" he said. "What do you think we did? We let you live out that secret dream fantasy you don't have the guts to do on your own . . ." he coughed,". . . and make a few bucks in the process . . ."

"Fantasy! Are you crazy? People KILLED themselves. And others. How is THAT a fantasy?"

The man laughed again, but with increasing pain. "Who cares . . . not my idea," he said, "I'm just the . . . flunky. Have to ask the, the . . . boss." He coughed again.

"Who put you up to this?"

"Why, the mayor . . . thought you figured it out . . . by now." The man smiled, then groaned.

"The mayor!" Oliver said with momentary disbelief. Then things started making sense: the mayor's involvement, the ransom, the hour delay, no police tail, everything.

"Yeah, the mayor, the . . . bastard! He promised we'd have a full hour before he'd let the damned police come. Didn't say anything about . . . YOU, though."

"Why? Why did he do this?"

"The plan. He wanted to . . ." the man began, but was cut off by convulsive coughing and choking, spitting up blood.

"He wanted to WHAT! Oliver shouted, shaking the man.

But it was too late. He was gone.

.

**11. Cleaning House**

Oliver grabbed the ransom and ran back into the domed tent. The man was off the table, unsteady, but busy. He'd found a locker with his clothes in it and was getting dressed, slowly with a spastic lack of coordination, but with no lack of determination. As weak and dazed as he was, one thing was obvious: he wanted to leave, and fast.

"What were they up to?" Oliver asked while helping the man put on his sneakers.

"I don't know," he said. "They never told me . . . anything. And I was drugged out of my wits."

"Why you?"

The man laughed bitterly. "Simple. I answered a wonderful ad on Craigslist. You know, 'man wanted with psychic abilities for university research project. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Will pay.'" He tried to make a cartoon bow, but got dizzy; Oliver had to catch him.

"Are you from around here?"

"I don't even know where HERE is. I was attending U. C. Santa Cruz, in California, majoring in Art History, between surfing and parties, just minding my own business." He stopped to shove his right arm into the sleeve of a blue denim shirt. "Next thing I knew, I was strapped to a table, drugged out of my friggin' gourd, with wires and tubes coming out everywhere. A lab rat!" A grim smile flickered across his pale, drawn face. "The only thing I DO remember, because they mentioned it over and over, was that I was a critical part of THE PLAN — you could hear the caps, the way they always said it with reverence."

"Do you know what the plan was?"

"Not a clue." He was finally dressed and ready to go. "So, can you get me out of . . ." He was drowned out by a deafening sound from outside. Detective Lance's amplified voice, Oliver recognized.

THIS IS THE POLICE, the voice boomed, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES.

"I want to go home, not a police cell," the man cried. "Please . . ."

Oliver grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the dome, stopping to pick up the shoulder-pack. Once outside, in the warehouse space, they could see brilliant blue and red lights flashing through the windows.

"Follow me," Oliver said as he ran to the cable hanging from the window above. He wrapped his fingers around the line, then let go. "No, you go first."

"I can't . . ." the man said, looking exhausted, ". . . too weak."

"No problem. I'll pull you up." Oliver jumped at the line and shimmied up so fast the man could barely believe his eyes. Once at the top, he disappeared through the window. An instant later, his head reappeared. "Tie the end around your chest, under your arms. Hurry!" The man complied with surprising speed given his condition.

"All set!" the man said, looking up. He felt the line tighten, then pull sharply against him with a painful yank. As he rose, much faster than he'd expected, he became lightheaded. He was about to lose consciousness, when startled awake by metal canisters crashing through the windows, hissing, teargas spewing out. Before he could hold his breath and close his eyes, he was being pulled through the window onto the roof into the cool night air.

"One last thing to do before we go," Oliver said, turning. "Clean up the mess and make sure no one can reuse the equipment — even the government." He scoffed. "ESPECIALLY the government!" He grabbed an arrow, the one with a bulbous tip, and shot it through the window, aimed at the dome. There was a muffled explosion, shattered debris flying in all directions, followed by flames and billowing smoke.

He took the man by the arm and led him across the roof until they came to a low parapet, jumped to the adjacent roof, then ran until they came to the alley his cycle was in. They scrambled down the iron ladder bolted to the concrete wall, to the pavement below and jumped on his waiting cycle. They tore out of the alley and turned at the first cross-street. They were long gone before the police broke into the burning building.

Oliver drove across town and stopped behind a closed Chinese restaurant in a deserted part of town. They had to talk. He'd only fixed part of the problem. He needed to fix the remainder. If he could.

"I don't know who you are or what they did to you, but you're a danger to my home. I know I should probably take you to a hospital," Oliver said as he tried to bandage some of the man's wounds with the first-aid kit from his cycle, "but it's more important that you leave Starling City, tonight, forever. You need to disappear so they can never find you again, and use you again. Understand?"

"Totally," the man said. "And don't worry about me; all I need is a long, hot bath, a good meal and a month or two in the sack. And don't worry, I'll totally disappear. I won't even go home where they can find me again. A friend wants me to move to New York and help him with his import-export business. I'll leave tonight. And change my name. I promise. Believe me, I NEVER want to go through this again. Never!"

"I believe you. I'll take you to the airport. Here, take this," Oliver said as he pushed a wad of bills into the man's hand, a really big wad of really big denominations of currency he always carried when in vigilante-mode for an emergency. "I'd suggest Chuck's Bar & Grill at the airport, the porterhouse blue-plate special. Then leave on the first flight you can get. And, good luck."

The man took the money. "I don't know how to thank you. I really mean it! But . . . but, who ARE you?"

"A friend," Oliver said as he helped the man back on the cycle, "but your worst enemy if you ever come back."

.

**12. Queen Takes Night **

Later that night, Oliver returned to the basement of the Queen factory. Diggle and Felicity were waiting, concern etched on their faces.

"What happened?" Diggle asked, jumping up. "You've been gone for hours."

"Give me a minute and I'll tell you."

Felicity helped him remove his hood. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said as he dropped the shoulder-bag containing the ransom on a desk, then started peeling off his hot leather shirt. "They're out of business, hopefully forever. But you're not going to belief what happened . . ." he began, giving them a rambling account of the chase, the warehouse, the man, the final destruction, ending with, ". . . remaining unanswered questions. What was the mayor up to? And what was — IS! — 'The Plan'?" He dropped into the nearest chair, suddenly tired. Somehow, the verbal account was more exhausting than the actual event.

"Maybe the mayor figures he can use it to get re-elected," Diggle guessed.

"Unlikely. He just GOT re-elected. By a landslide, if I recall. Besides, there's a lot easier ways."

"Right," Felicity agreed, "and isn't he on, you know, THE list?"

"Sure is. Huh, maybe I need to pay him a visit one of these nights. Have a friendly little chat."

Diggle started to say something, then stopped himself.

Oliver saw him. "What?" he asked, curious.

"Well, didn't your mother been having private meetings with the mayor over the last few weeks?"

"Yeah," Oliver replied, irritated at first, then relaxed, thinking, "supposedly to discuss fundraising for a couple of pet charities." They stared at each other for a moment, silent, then, "Maybe I need to have a friendly little chat with her some night, too."

Diggle nodded, looking uncomfortable, then, "But be careful," he smiled, "and diplomatic this time . . . she's a good shot. Remember?"

"I have the scars to prove it."

"So," Felicity asked, eying the shoulder-pack, "what are we going to do with the, uh, ransom money?"

"Return it, I guess. Unless you have a better idea."

She smiled. "I'll work on it . . ."

.

**13. ****Russian Dolls and Onions**

Later that night, Oliver was sitting in a corner, brooding. Nothing new. Felicity was fussing with one of the computers, attempting to push its efficiency from 97.83% to 97.84%. Nothing new, either. Diggle had just left.

Eventually she was satisfied with the computer, or gave up, and powered down the entire system, going through a long, meticulous series of procedures, the sort one might expect to find at IBM or the CIA. 'Obsessive-compulsive', Diggle always joked. 'Perfect', Oliver always contradicted, to Felicity's delight. Finished for the night, she stood up and started to leave, stopping to talk with Oliver.

"I don't suppose we could keep the money?" she said, deadpan, trying to keep from laughing. Or even smiling.

"What would you do with ten mil?"

"Oh, I don't know . . . there's a pair of gorgeous Italian pumps in the window at Rosenberg's . . ." She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Expensive shoes." He didn't smile as she'd intended, hoped.

"You're moodier than usual," she said, laying a hand softly on his shoulder from behind. "And that's saying something for you."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"It's the dream, isn't it?"

"I guess. And a dozen other things, too." He looked at her as she dropped in the chair in front of him. "You know, that dream fantasy called life."

Her look of concern flowed into a smile then back to concern. "Your dream, it was about Laurel, wasn't it." As soon as the words popped out, she winced, embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ollie. I shouldn't have said that. None of my business. Felicity Flapjaw strikes again!"

"No, it's okay. You're right, it WAS about her. Big surprise. Just more salt on the proverbial open, festering wound." He looked at her and smiled, easing her guilt. A little. "How did you know? Another one of those mystical female senses we dumb ol' boys didn't get?" He laughed.

"No, just women's intuition this time, I guess. Besides, maybe she had a similar dream about you. Maybe there's a happy ending to the story and you both live happily ever after, someday. And maybe the psychic-attack will ultimately backfire."

"Are you just being optimistic or psychic? Better watch out! If they find out about your psychic abilities, they just might tie you down and stick you full of electrodes and tubes and use YOU to take over the world."

"Perhaps. But maybe it's all just another dream."

"Huh, what do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe we're all still in the induced dream. Or another dream. Or, you know, a dream WITHIN a dream." She tilted her head slightly, raising her right eyebrow, smirking. That quizzical look of hers Oliver always liked.

"You think so? Is that even possible?"

"Why not? If one induced dream is possible, why not two? Or a hundred-and-two? One inside of another and another and another, on and on — you know, like those Russian Matryoshka dolls. Or an onion." She got that look on her face again. "Or . . . maybe the whole thing's just a dream YOU'RE still having, no one else. A real rollercoaster ride!"

Oliver thought for a moment, then looked mischievous. "Huh. Well, in that case, if it's all just a dream, maybe we should do something wild and crazy before someone wakes up."

"Like what?"

He raised his right leg and looked at his foot. "We could both use a new pair of shoes, don't you think?"

She gave him an amused look. "Are you kidding? I'm a woman. I was BORN with an addiction to shoes. Of COURSE I could use a new pair of shoes!" She jumped up, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the chair. "Let's go! And — just so there's no misunderstanding, since it's JUST a dream — you're paying. Right?"

"Right. And I just happen to know a terrific little shop in Paris — Marcel's or something — mom's absolute most-favorite shoe-monger." He looked at his watch. "The company plane can have us there by eleven. Noon, tops."

She glared at him. "Don't you DARE wake up, Mr. Queen!"

"Why, I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Smoak."


End file.
